


"In the Air"

by Hipster_Android



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-04-27 07:56:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5040304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hipster_Android/pseuds/Hipster_Android
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Penguin gets pollenated and the spoils go to Jim Gordon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"In the Air"

**Author's Note:**

> So I received a prompt about a year ago for a sex pollen Gobblepot fic and this is what resulted from it.

KAPITEL EINS  
Oswald huffed against the cold and shrunk into his scarf, stowing aching, frozen knuckles into the pockets of his pea coat. Another day in Gotham, he mused. Another day of Arctic waste. He rubbed at his brows, trying to massage the sleep from them. He had a club to run, and an empire to manage, and he had not slept well the night before. The leg that gave him the name “Penguin” was stinging; the split bone rubbed on itself as he hobbled down the sidewalk, like a creaking hinge. Although the walk was painful and hectic at best between the bustle of commuting workers and street vendors, Oswald preferred the walk in the cold to falling asleep in the back of a cushy Chrysler.  
A tired kingpin is a weak kingpin, he told himself. Nobody could catch him in a vulnerable state. In truth, Oswald truly enjoyed seeing Gotham wake. There was a tension on the street since the “maniacals or whatever they were called” sent a handful of bodies over a rooftop, but that was just the hard edge of Gotham that had always been there. The peasantry now saw the world of the Penguin, and it was amusing to him.  
Even so, the city had a beauty about it that had always captivated him. Gotham was an organism as it was, breathing and shifting and looking around with wide eyes. It was a hell, but a home all the same.  
“Oof! Sorry.” A florist rushing toward his shop ran slapbang into Oswald, laden with flowers. A dust stormed the Penguin’s nose, sweet smelling but violating. He gave a harsh sneeze. The florist helped him stand upright.  
“Oh my God, I’m sorry, sir.” Oswald waved him away.  
“Don’t worry, I’m all right. You haven’t damaged your wares, have you?”  
The florist inspected his box. “Everything looks fine.” His shop was set into the building next to them, and the shaken plants had been placed upon a news stand. Oswald had nearly fallen, and now was sizing up the box and the shop.  
“Here.” The Penguin dug out his wallet and pulled a fifty-dollar bill from the fold. “In case you find something has been harmed later.”  
“I can’t.”  
“Please, I insist.” Hesitantly, the florist accepted his money. “Have a good day.” The mobster waved, then continued down the sidewalk. Had Butch been there, he observed, he would have been dead by now.  
“Thank you, sir.”

 

Oswald was sat in his office above the club, running numbers for the business. Their income was healthy, but he had wanted to have a new event to draw customers. If it was a risk on the business it would affect traffic, but if it was a wise move Oswald’s could be put on the map as the hottest night club on Gotham’s East Side. The whole city was the Penguin’s target, but he was content to start small. A soft knock on the door caught his attention.  
“Yes?”  
Johnathon, one of his aides, stepped into the office.  
“Detective Jim Gordon is here to see you,” he said.  
“I have time for a friend. Send him in.” Johnathon sthifted aside, and the smallish man in the suit made the bottom fall from Oswald’s stomach. “James, how can I be of service?”  
“I wanted to talk to you about the Maniacs.” Oswald nodded knowingly.  
“Johnathon, if you please?” The aide made his exit, shutting the door behind him. “What do you need?”  
“Information. Do you know anything?”  
“To the point. That’s respectable, James.” Oswald pulled a bottle of Ritterhouse from his desk and poured himself a flat-bottomed glass. He held up the bottle and eyed him questioningly. Jim shook his head. Without missing a beat Oswald replaced the bottle and took a sip, chewing the whisky and thinking. “There is nothing I can tell you about the Maniacs that you don’t already know. I don’t know where they came from, or why.” He folded his hands. “But, the little birds are talking. Quite a bit, actually.”  
“Well?” Jim held out his hands. “I’ve already demonstrated that you can trust me. I’d like to think I can expect the same from you.”   
“Oh, you can, James. I just wanted to preface the rumors with fact.” Oswald was imagining James naked underneath him while writhing at the ministrations of his mouth. The Penguin pushed the thought away. Since when, mused he, was he thinking this way about the Gotham detective? Short of the tense eye contact and the touches that lasted too long, Oswald had not allowed himself the space to consider the detective as deeply as he had wanted to. He quietly wondered what he looked like in the midst of a climax. He swallowed another mouthful of whisky; it went down like molasses. “They say they might be preparing for something big, like a heist. Going after money.”  
“I don’t buy it.”  
“Neither do I. I think,” Oswald rose, “they are after status.” He hobbled toward Jim, seating himself on the corner of his desk.   
“Status?”  
“Status. Tell me, James, how does one gain control in Gotham?”  
Jim nodded. “Fear.”  
“Yes. Make them afraid, and the populace is yours.” Oswald tore his eyes from the detective’s gleaming belt buckle, resolving to bathe in the coldest water his apartment faucet would allow later.  
“You speaking as a fear mongerer or a man who knows something about it?” There was no expression from the detective, save for his usual driven gaze. The Penguin smiled at this. Adorable.   
“Now now. You wouldn’t accuse me of fear mongering, would you? I have never lied to you. I have withheld information, but I haven’t lied.”  
Jim’s features still revealed nothing.  
“If you are looking for a lead to follow, follow the fear. That’s my advice for a friend.” Jim stood, fastening his suit coat again.  
“Thank you. I appreciate your help.”  
“What are friends for?” Oswald accompanied him to the door of the office. “James…”  
“Yes?” Oswald laid a hand on his arm.  
“If you need to speak more about this, where there won’t be any distractions…” Jim had turned, and now had a finger straying toward Oswald’s belt. The heat in him rose, and with a desperate grip he was holding the detective’s face, kissing him. Jim had been surprised, but after the longest three seconds of Oswald’s career in Gotham, was pressing into him with an equal force. The Penguin wanted to be taken, even if he couldn’t place the origin of his rash need. He was ready to hit his knees if that was what would convince the detective to claim him.  
To Oswald’s misfortune, Jim pulled away, leaving the Penguin with lips tingling and face flushed.   
“Yes?” The impassive Jim Gordon was now smiling.   
“Uh.. You know where to find me.” Oswald was nearly whispering, the bravado from their previous exchanges gone. James ghosted his nose over the Penguin’s; the shorter businessman was breathing heavily in response. He nearly gasped when his aching need was under the detective’s palm.  
“I do.” A smile had turned to a menacing grin. “Maybe we can talk about this later… in more detail.”  
“It would be impolite of me to refuse,” Oswald breathed.  
“I’ll contact you.”  
“Yes.”  
James was seen out by a red-faced Penguin, eyes straight ahead, maintaining a mask of courtesy. Once the silver-blue suit had disappeared beyond the hall doorway, Oswald rubbed his eyes desperately, the lead between his legs giving twinges of hunger. He sat down heavily, pouring himself one more whisky and begging for nightfall to come, when he would have some time for himself and his spinning thoughts.


End file.
